Creek Bed
by Good Evening
Summary: Alfred and Arthur take a vacation in the British countryside, and Arthur remembers quite vividly what his youth was like, with Alfred's help. USUK, extremely graphic.


Halloween, 2011

_Creek Bed  
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><p>Dewy grass wets his back and turns bald patches of dirt into thin, gritty mud. Pebbles dig into his spine as he curls in the cold, legs twitching in spasms, slipping, thighs sliding up and down golden haunches as toes curl and fists rip at young grass. Tight jaw trembling, neck arching against the ground, he draws slowly onto his arms, biting a quivering lip, head tilting forward, elbows grating against the rocks and the mud and the reeds as he glances into the wood with strange, heated demure as Alfred grunts at the new position and yanks his hips higher, too wet and slick with green mist rain to hold. Hearing a low, masculine growl, he surrenders in irritation and eases down on his back, stiffening in his writhing just so to only skim the rocks and not catch them in taut casts of skin.<p>

Pain and heat radiate from where Alfred touches him; indelicate, demanding. It makes him feel young and he claws the ground in anticipation of each desperate new grasp, choking on cooling sweat through the fervent pushes and pulls, the slaps and scratches. He'd nearly forgotten what men were like in his complacence. Good thing peaceful times rarely last.

Comfort evades him. In the greedy, desirous glares shining down at him swirl lust and practice without consideration. He muses with one poorly-executed thrust that Alfred couldn't give a shit about him when getting off is around the corner. Perhaps throwing down and rutting by a brook like he'd initiated was simply the wrong thing to do; the lad can't translate the skin worship they sought in a warm bed, caresses and whispering and work in the morning, to a place he knew; the rough in which he'd grown. Arthur can understand that much, if he doesn't reciprocate the need. He knows alleys and fighting and fucking, but he's older, now, more refined. Memories of conquests satisfy him, but their creations were consecutively, he had once believed, opuses in their right. Wild breeds wild, after all.

A cock sounds off in the distance and urgency climbs into their muddy nest. Alfred is fuelled faster, pounding and coarse, breath haggard, laboured, and no matter how he wriggles and adjusts, Arthur knows he won't be able to come until a hand helps him after. He grits his teeth, buckles into the grass and digs his nails into the dirt, mouth open yet tense, spewing out gasps and whines too low and too short to be pleasured.

"Alfre… Al… fred…"

The name becomes a mantra and recognition creeps into that shadowed face, eyes igniting with brief calculation. When he drags his lids open with a dissatisfied snarl, the serious expression confronting him stuns him into silence.

_Are you okay?_

He relaxes in answer, knowing the half-minute lucidity will escape and dissolve under an animal haze. He steels his hips as best he can, and sustains his posture with frantic jabs at the watery earth. It coats him, the lengths of his arms and his steaming chest, pouring over his twisted body majestically as it only touches Alfred's knees and hands. He revels in his filth and the soil of his home, and clenches around the man inside of him with a sigh and a shiver to hear a grateful, guttural moan stream above him like sweet, depraved music. The back of his neck prickles in bliss and his hands reach over his head to tear at the reeds at the base of a rot-hollowed log.

The dawn creeping silently over the wood crumbles his resolve. It steals his happiness and Alfred's questioning of it into a rosy bosom, enveloping the horizon and commanding the emerald hill pastures. His hands jump from their capture above his head and work to smooth out and cleanse the childish pink staining a strong back. A deep purr rumbles in the chest growing closer to him, shaking him, exciting him. Blonde hair coats his cheek and sticks to his face with hotter sweat, and a garbled moan is breathed into his shoulder. With a shudder, he bends to accommodate the man's fervent searching; the nose burrowing into the crook of his neck; the forehead pressing into his jaw; the lips sucking on his collar bone, then licking his jugular or biting anywhere.

Rays of sunlight are persistent and invade their deep blue paradise, hidden in the brush and the night. Where he felt Alfred fucking him deeply, slowly even minutes before, skin blue of the Fae with the night and the cold of his country, raw flesh now rubs insistently against itself, and they're twice as hard, and Alfred inside of him moves faster like a piston in the bowels of a ship; ruling the level with strength and magnitude. It's tight and hot, his gasps make lighter clouds, illuminated less by the moon than the sun, and shy against the brightening atmosphere of the glen. They need to finish soon. With a tentative thrust of his own against a powerful strike, he sends a dry message, and anticipates with tensing muscles its imminent reception.

Alfred understands, and holy Mother of God, isn't that wonderful.

Arms thick as trunks lead limp wrists over a great neck, and with a brief, terse look, hips never stopping, a rougher ride begins.

Pain cracks his eyelids and he choked on the dew, an iron vice encasing his flanks, hiking him into a hard lap with the power of a horse; the pain of bones creaking to support a pressure so intense he could split at every joint and disintegrate; the eye-clenching, heart-shuddering sweat that pours off of him in torrents, soaking both of them in an hour of rutting and fucking hard and bleeding against gravel and the sheer power of flesh against flesh. He must be tearing somewhere. He's too numb, been too pained to not.

Alfred drags him up higher, spreading his legs as he lets him and then some, tugging control out of him until his grinding teeth and shouts serve only to degrade him and not offer dissonance in their coupling. Alfred expects just enough pain to reach his own climax, and faintly ponders at the root of his conscience if he should find the decorum to drudge up a blowjob or if a quick handy might better accentuate the exigency. It's all work, after this, once night fades and steals into the past and his fucking ends and the day begins. He's already past schedule. He smiles inside, but outside he's mean and growling and damn near angry, and he loves that as a result of sex.

A light within him flickers whenever Arthur's near, when he sees the hips that are his swinging just slightly beneath a frumpy coat; a movement only he can see because once he gets that body into bed, he combs over it and rules it until it's shaking and sweet and he crushes against it, feeling more like a man than when he hunts. Its brilliance at this moment outshines all other things: a feeling of _hoard _evading all honour and decency because at the base of things, he could _kill_ when he's like this. When he loves like this. And as he's hammering his lover/father/brother's battered body into the ground, with cursory efforts to keep them from sliding deeper into the mud, the resounding call builds up in him, and with one last glance at Arthur's shivers and discomfort and futile struggles against him, he grows delirious with power and slams in as deep and hard as he can, feeling Arthur's sac slide over his hair as he comes and the only thought in his head as he bruises that thin waist is _mine_.

Arthur is struggling; the last smack against him wrests a hoarse shout and he whines as he's filled and fingers prod his entrance curiously, wanting to be sure enough of the load might remain. A dry, exhausted smile, lacking the energy of true humour, overpowers his face as he wonders at Alfred's youth, the raw authority in his movements, his audacity and his stupidity. Each time he loses himself in their couplings, he's disappointed: Arthur will never give him children, or hold it inside like it's some sort of charm or message that he's owned. These vexations, taken as insults, turn a heated glare into a pointed one, as Alfred watches the flaw in his mate's anatomy with momentary revulsion, forgetting his next duty in his beastliness. A patient hand and tipped brow remind him, almost too weak and too used to muster the effort. Arthur's not expecting anything special. At this rate, they're liable to be caught dressing.

When a massive hand closes around him, he sighs sharply, lifting his hips with reserve energy and thrusting as he shakily covers his mouth and gazes into the wood frantically for some blessed distraction. His toes curl and he shuts his eyes when he feels another hand collect his wrists, one by one into a clutch hovering above his chest. He pulls at it, testing it in wonderment to find it steady and immovable as stone, and fighting against it, seeing it move suddenly just once, he grins triumphantly at the stupefied look that greets it,

_I, too, am a superpower, boy._

Something about his own moment of clarity is unnerving for the impatient lad, and he is pushed from it with an angry snarl and his own mewl. His submission is for Alfred's sake. That temper is quicker than a virgin.

He comes with gritting teeth and an arched back, thin chest collapsing and rising in unstable breaths, watching the vague shapes of his semen stripe a gun barrel chest. The hand releases his, and they flop uselessly to either side of him. His breaths aren't willing to be caught as easily in his age, and he enjoys the post-coital bliss almost as much as early foreplay, unlike Alfred, who sits watchful with his legs still draped over his lap, surveying the countryside and the wood and the creek for predators or challengers. Arthur doesn't envy his paranoia or overt masculinity, but he certainly remembers them, and that's enough to make him shiver in cool pleasure.

In a flash of realisation, Alfred finally sobers, and makes the executive decision to stand. With boyish satisfaction, he pulls out and sees the frothy product drip in a fat, bubbly wire between pale thighs, and allows legs to fall to either side so he might rise. Arthur couldn't give a shit about anything at the moment as feet tread past his head through the mud, wading into the creek up to calves streaked dusty and dark browns with it. He notices in his evaporating ecstasy that his hair is caked with the mixture and flush with grass and reeds he'd torn. With a peeved mutter, he slowly makes his way to tremulous elbows, then sits, rising on a wobbling knee, fragile and clumsy as a foal. When at last he turns to Alfred spying at him impishly, shit-eating grin so prominent it spoils the rest of his sex-soaked body, he feels homicidal, but every motion, he knows, must be short and timed, else he'll crumble and suffer that ridiculous guffaw.

He joins the man in the creek and with a grumble allows him to pull him into a tight hug. His semen wipes between their stomachs, making him stickier, and he pushes away the body dripping hormones and _his scent_ to sit in the creek and wash it all off. Alfred plops down good-naturedly and lathers the mud and sweat over his hands, rubbing it into the skin of his legs in a light massage. Arthur knows what he is doing from days as a young man, and looks away in shattered decency when his heartbeat stutters. The scent of sex is overwhelming, and Alfred bloody well _knows_ what he's doing. Christ.

Never mind. What is he going to do about his hair?

"I bet you didn't bring soap."

"Did you?"

"Had better things to think of."

He means the guns piled into his duffel bag and the night vision goggles he'd insisted were necessary out of sheer awesomeness. Arthur mumbles something miserable, and with a pleased look on his face, Alfred grabs a fist of hair and yanks him down into the water so quick and strong, he yelps in obvious pain, head submerged, legs thrashing as a hand skims his scalp and darts gracelessly between locks like a fat eel. A punch barrels into a bearlike chest and the hand shrinks away. Alfred doubles over as more punches and slaps rain down on him, leaving patches of skin red even through the ice water of the creek.

"You **_git_**!"

"I love you, baby." Comes the amused croak. He hits him again for good measure before shucking off the rest of the mud and storming out of the water,

"Light of my life. Adonis. My beauty. My love,"

"I will _destroy_ you," he says out of habit, shaking his hair of droplets, fumbling with a trouser leg. Sloshing water alerts him the buffoon approacheth, and he cusses as his foot loses the path and a body drifts up to shadow his back, naked, wet.

"Put some clothes on," and to his immediate surprise, Alfred obeys, whistling something cheerful as he seeks out his glasses and slides them on, contentedly searching through the pile of clothes for his own. Limbs clean and trickling with cold rivulets slide into jeans with miraculous, infuriating ease, and green eyes marvel at the cosmic injustice of it all.

If he was that daft, would life magically work for him, too?

When they've dressed, and he throws on his jacket, and Alfred slings the strained camouflage strap over his shoulder with that same ease, they begin the journey out of the valley, toward the bed and breakfast they'd forgone for the moor and the creek. The hill erupts into slight grey crags overridden with tough, tall thistles, and Arthur's feet delve between them with practised ease. Alfred's ears track every whisper in the brush for birds and rabbits, but they've all gone away.

"I hear ya'll hunt riding horses, have dogs do all the work."

"Hounds. We're not doing that."

"You ever done it?"

"I've done everything here."

"Ever done that…?"

"Naturally. Have you?"

"'Course. Life gets lonely."

"It's not about loneliness."

"Oh, I know."

Alfred hums innocently, enjoying the walk and scaring off the wildlife with tremendous steps. Arthur is lost in his thoughts. They watch the sun find them over the crest of the hill, and see the grass steam under its blaze, though they remain in their coats, elder tucked snugly with a scarf, younger's flapping carelessly open in the slow breeze. The town peers up at them from the farmlands and the knoll falls behind in the shadows. Without warning, Arthur's hand is swept out of his pocket and into long gentle fingers weighing their strength vigilantly. He nearly stops, glances down but doesn't say anything, and as they walk to the inn, the grip pulses once around his thoughtfully, and an unwrinkled neck meets his stunted eye level, and a little rush of his own possessiveness claims him hungrily for a moment. The daylight is golden and vivid, and he smiles as they walk down the path into the neighbouring valley.

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><p>Basically two men rutting in a glen.<p> 


End file.
